


Tumblr Extras & One Shots

by hansbekhart



Series: Do it Til We Get it Right [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:13:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5774524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hansbekhart/pseuds/hansbekhart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collected from <a href="http://hansbekhart.tumblr.com/post/135333381503/send-me-an-anonymous-ask-completing-the-sentence">tumblr prompts</a> and challenges, in my <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4195266">Make A Thing Go Right</a> universe.  Feel free to give me more, my inbox is always open!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Afghanistan, 2006

  
**Anonymous asked: I wish you would write a fic where Bucky gets to see Sam use his wings- in the Make a thing go right universe. Absolutely love that story, so really anything you want to add to it would be amazing.**

Originally posted [here](http://hansbekhart.tumblr.com/post/135472915225/i-wish-you-would-write-a-fic-where-bucky-gets-to).  
  
-  
  


They actually had met before, but neither of them remembered it. James’ hair had been short; Sam hadn’t taken off his helmet and goggles. It’d been - 2006, or thereabouts, all those years dragging together by the time they might’ve compared notes. Camp al-Saqr. Two fucking weeks Sam and Riley had been there, fixing up the field hospital and they’d spent most of it getting ribbed, because they were at Forward Operating Base Falcon, get it? Yeah, got it, fucking hilarious.

The night before they’d been up half the night getting shelled by insurgents, who used the thicket of civilian homes around FOB Falcon to hide. Power to the hospital had gone out around 0200, which was why Sam had been up; he’d gotten to the point where he could sleep through just about anything. So the next day he slept through the briefing, stumbled out of his bunk bleary eyed and uncaring to the news that some infantry troops had been sent off in the general direction of where the mortars had come from. No one was surprised when it came back that one of them had been shot. 

Sam and Riley had gone; this was EXO-7’s premiere tour and Task Force Black was eager to show them off, let al-Qaeda know what was up. The novelty hadn’t worn off for them either, and Sam’s heart had been juddering with adrenaline and excitement when they’d touched down on the rooftop of a dusty apartment building. Two guys waiting for them up top, plus the wounded man, and all of them faking impassivity at the _wings_ , holy shit, what are they gonna think of next. 

It was James who gave Sam the sitrep, who crouched close when Sam looked him over, their wingmen on watch behind them. Bullet had clipped the guy, got through the substandard armor infantry was getting those days, and he wasn’t bleeding out but they didn’t have a lot of time to waste. 

Sam had hefted the guy up in a bridal carry, not noticing the appreciative way James’ eyes raked over his arms and his shoulders. Under his helmet James was deeply tanned, and perpetually gritty with dirt and sand. His blue eyes were unsettlingly bright in his face, but Sam didn’t notice them either, except to call the guy _ghostly_ later on, just in his head. James had slapped his buddy’s helmet twice, and Sam had felt the jolt in his arm, and then he’d stepped back to give them room to take off. 

“Safe trip,” James said, and Sam nodded, and that was it - except for the handful of seconds that James gave himself, to turn and marvel, and watch them disappear into the bright winter sun.  
  



	2. Washington DC, 2016

**lilith20godrich asked: I wish you would write a story where Captain America would try to steal James Barnes from Sam Wilson in your Make a Thing Go Right Universe.**

Originally posted [here](http://hansbekhart.tumblr.com/post/135721220008/i-wish-you-would-write-a-story-where-captain).  
  
-  
  
Natasha asks, just once, as Steve parks. In the early morning light she looks very pale, under the layer of soot and grime that’s covering them both. She asks, “Are you sure?” 

Steve’s hands are still on the wheel. He squeezes a little. It’s cheap feeling against his palms, like plastic. “I don’t want to - ” he says, and chokes on it. He tries again. “I thought it was coincidence, up on the rooftop. But now -” 

She nods, slow and watchful. She watched him all the way through Jersey, like a spooked animal, but she got steadier once they were off the turnpike. He’s glad, selfishly. He knows she’s rattled but he needs her for this. She’ll do what she has to, if he - if - 

She’s never been to this house. He never brought her here. It’s quiet, and still - ordinary looking. The car’s in the driveway. The lights are off. There are lawn chairs out back, a cheap Weber grill. An overflowing ashtray, tucked under a broke down wooden chair next to the back door. He’s never seen any sign of an alarm, but it’s possible. Anything’s possible. 

The back door’s one of those sliding glass ones. It doesn’t lock properly, never really has, and Steve lifts it up a little in its frame, gives it a shake and slides it open. He peers around the corner - there’s only one set of keys hanging up at the front door. Good. That’ll make this easier. 

There’s a soft sound from up the stairs. Behind him, he can feel Natasha exhale, almost silently. Footsteps. Bare feet shuffling over the thin carpet, heavier on one side. Steve’s whole body is wound tight, wound all the way up. He hasn’t felt this hot since 1944. 

Steve uses his bare hands. One strike to the sternum as the target - groggy and rubbing sleep out of his eyes - rounds the corner into the kitchen, sending him staggering backwards. Use that momentum to knock him down all the way, skidding into the hall, the rug bunching up under his shoulders. They’re grappling dirty on the floor, and he’s twisting like an eel under Steve, trying to break Steve’s hold. Gets one knee up, barely missing Steve’s balls, gets enough leverage with his foot on Steve’s thigh to work the other one out and kick Steve right in the chin. His neck snaps up; it _hurts_. His grip loosens enough that the target wiggles loose and goes scrambling towards the living room. Almost manages it but Steve’s on him, one hand fisted in that long hair to slam his face into the wood floor. Does it again, harder, and the body under his goes abruptly limp. 

“Tell me it wasn’t you,” Steve says, too loud, the words scraping themselves out of his throat. Soft hair tangled around his fingers, his other hand braced against the hard curve of the metal shoulder. “ _James!_ Tell me it wasn’t you.” 

“Steve,” Natasha says, and Steve lurches to his feet, shoves himself off James’ prone body. He gags, hard enough that it doubles him over, and for a second he’s sure he’s gonna be sick. On the floor, James groans. He’s bleeding. He’s got one bleary eye cracked open, just a sliver of that bright blue that all the Barnes kids had, and he’s grinding his forehead and one shoulder into the floor, trying to flip himself over. Steve gags again. He’d had hours in the car to imagine how they’d done it - actors, forged records, edited photos, plastic surgery - they’d had Bucky’s _letters_ , they’d _had them_ , no one could have _known_ \- but seeing James now is like seeing him for the first time all over again, struck dumb and aching by the sight of him just the way Steve had been that day in Stark’s lab. 

They look just alike. It’s a - it’s a sick joke. It’s a horror. 

James hadn’t even tried to use the arm against Steve. 

The front door opens. He hears Natasha draw her gun on Sam, hears Sam shout James’ name. Steve doesn’t even turn around. He keeps his eye on James, that metal arm tucked awkwardly underneath him, his long hair bloody and matted against his face where Steve split his lip and forehead open for him. He watches James’ shoulders jerk with effort as he shoves himself the last few feet towards the couch and comes back up with a pistol they must have hidden underneath it. He watches James aim the gun at his face. 

God, Steve had wanted him. Even when he’d known he wasn’t - that Bucky was - it had made Steve dizzy to be around him. 

He sits down on the couch. Falls down, more or less. There’s a scuffle behind him, as Sam goes for the Natasha’s gun, ending with a couple heavy thuds. Not a problem. 

“What the hell is going on, Steve!” Sam shouts, and Steve feels a stab of pity: if Sam didn’t know either. On the floor, James has both shoulders braced against the wood, eyes huge, pupils dilated. Waiting for Steve to make a move. The pistol doesn’t waver at all, in his hands. 

“Tell me it wasn’t you,” Steve says to him. His hands are useless and heavy between his knees. “Tell me you’re real. James, tell me you’re real.”  
  



	3. Home, home, home

**Anonymous asked: I wish you would write a fic where Sam Wilson is happy, not depressed or suffering and just surrounded in all the love he deserves, aka Sam/Steve/Bucky sandwhich with birds and flying**

Originally posted [here](http://mcuflashmeme.dreamwidth.org/409.html?thread=4761#cmt4761).   
  
\-   
  
When Sam wakes it’s slow and easy, like summer morning. Consciousness comes in flickers of shivery light as he blinks his eyes open, closed, open again. He’s warm - tucked close between the bed underneath him and the weight of a familiar body on top. “Mmm,” the body says, and noses under Sam’s chin. James is still asleep, more or less; the press of his mouth against Sam’s throat is soft and clumsy. 

Sam had fallen asleep with his arms wrapped around James and he’s woken up the same way. He tightens them a little, shifts his weight to accommodate as James cuddles nearer. They’re wrapped up together, arms and legs, close as they can get. 

The room is quiet. Steve had said something last night about a cell phone ban - letting them get their rest, he’d said, and actually fucking winked. When Sam cracks an eye open he can see the damage done: a chair overturned, two sets of black trousers strewn across the carpet, shirts flung god knew where, James’ underwear on top of the lamp, jackets somewhere under the bed. He can smell the last little bit of the champagne he’d taken upstairs with them, the bottle they’d finished together as the sun was rising, sitting naked on the sprawling bed. 

He can’t even tell where he ends and James begins. Which was the point of it, he guesses. 

James is making happy sleep sounds, muffled against Sam’s collarbone. His hand’s tucked under Sam’s neck, low enough that he won’t catch Sam’s hair between the plates on his fingertips. The arm itself is body warm, indistinguishable from the rest of him - but right on that big vein on Sam’s neck, just over the soft pulse of his heartbeat, he can feel that thin band of gold against his skin. 

He presses a kiss against James’ forehead. Can’t help it; joy bubbles up in him like that champagne had last night. His face aches from smiling. His feet ache from dancing. His body aches from the champagne, and how they’d gone at each other once they were finally alone. 

James draws in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly as precursor to consciousness. “How you doin,” Sam whispers, and gets in another kiss to James’ temple, and James tries to get his face up for Sam to kiss that instead, eyes still squinched closed. They manage it, after a couple tries, and then stay there for a while, touching everywhere they can reach. 

James draws back, his hair spreading soft across the pillow. He looks tender, and startled, like he can’t quite believe where he’s woken up. He touches Sam’s cheek, gently. “You’re gorgeous,” he says, and then turns his face to the pillow as if Sam’s never seen him blush. 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Sam tells him, and they’re quiet for a few minutes. There’s sunlight coming in through the curtains, and the room smells like good sex and sleep. 

“So, Staff Sergeant Wilson,” James says, eventually. “What d’you wanna do today?” 

Sam hums a little, one of the little habits he picked up from James at some point. “First day,” he muses. “Sounds important, right? I don’t know, Sergeant Wilson. What do _you_ wanna do?” 

James giggles. They try to kiss again, laughing into each other’s mouths. “Let’s stay in bed the whole day,” James breathes. He’s wiggled close again, one leg hooked around the back of Sam’s knees, keeping them wrapped together, chest to chest, all the way down. 

“Oh yeah?” Sam asks. “I think we have to give this hotel room back at some point.” He can feel the shape of James’ dick against his thigh: not hard exactly, but interested. James grins, and rolls over to plant an elbow on either side of Sam’s head, bracing himself. 

“Nah, here,” he says, and punctuates each word with little bites to Sam’s jaw, down his throat. Sam lets him do it, propping his hands behind his head to give free rein, tilting his chin up. “Here’s the OPLAN. You listenin?” 

“Mmmhhm,” Sam says. James is heavy, solid, and sweating a little. He’d had each ankle looped over Sam’s, and when Sam spreads his legs he pushes James’ legs wider too, til their dicks are brushing against each other, damp with the heat they’re making under the blankets. 

“We fool around,” James says, and wiggles his hips for emphasis, “then I call the front desk and tell ‘em we’ll stay another night. Then we order some room service. I’ll put on - uh - your tie to answer the door.” 

“Prob’ly get us thrown out,” Sam says, lifting his head to suck on the line of James’ throat. James groans, and his hips push down against Sam’s. It pushes the air out of Sam’s lungs and he gasps, laughing, turned on. 

“Nah, they’ll get it,” James says, getting a little rhythm now, rubbing his dick against Sam’s. “They liked us last night, you know they did. Quit interrupting me. Room service - with champagne. Nicest bottle they have.” 

“You’ll regret making that promise,” Sam says, and James grins. 

“Nah,” he says, and draws Sam’s left hand out from behind his head, takes it in his own. He kisses Sam’s knuckles, then his fingertips, and then sucks each one delicately, up to the second knuckle. The heat of his mouth - the drag of James’ tongue over the pads of his fingertips - sends shudders through Sam’s body. He’s panting a little, hot with it, and then goes soft all over as James draws his lips over the ring on Sam’s finger, kissing it gently, reverently. His eyes are closed. 

They breathe, steady. Together. 

James opens his eyes, blinks slow and heavy a couple times. He looks up, and meets Sam’s gaze, his eyes crinkling up at the corners at whatever look he’s seeing on Sam’s face. “Then we watch cartoons,” he says, like nothing had happened, like the air between them wasn't electric. “Later on, we fool around again. No clothes in between. But maybe more room service.” 

“Good plan,” Sam says, soft, and draws his husband back down and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.   
  



End file.
